Sacraments
by iskry
Summary: Sandor does not dream nor does he want. It is known. Yet what of the unknown?
1. Crow

Sacraments

His hands clenched the dirt where he laid sprawled. Sandor stared unblinking up into the morose sky. Past the flies that droned and swarmed in the shade of the trees that surrounded. What sunlight there was filtered through the leaves, casting an eerie fern green glow to all surroundings. He rolled his eyes across what he could make up of the sky, seeing the birds soar overhead, the unyielding strata of ominous cloud, and fragments of the sun. All marred by the spittle of rain that came and went. The scent of sweet rot clung to him, enticing insects to sting at him, biting into his flesh.

It was all relentless. The fever swept over him and pain rolled like the tide. _All wasted_, he thought to himself, bitterly.

Frustration filled him as a crow croaked overhead, his eyes made contact with the ink black smear of animal perched upon a cracked and splintered bough. The creature peered back at him, black eyes shining like wet pearls in its cruel, stupid head. He desired to crush it between his hands each time it croaked at him. Like laughter. The strength to sit up, let alone rage, had fled long ago. The crow became an unwanted companion. He stared back at it, and watched as it dove into the brush and waddled out with a dull orange snake snapped up in its beak. The serpent's tail flailed about searching and slowly began to curl around the crow's body. A sharp crack split through the air and the snake's head fell to the ground, separated from its body. The crow looked at Sandor, working its beak open and close as though silently laughing.

Sandor breathed in and felt fluid bubble up from his lungs frothing into his mouth, and he dissolved into paroxysms of cough. Spots of frenzied color began to crowd his vision; the effort was exhausting and summoned a blazing web of agony in his wounded body. His awareness began to fragment, and darkness poured through and drowned out the frenzy of color. And the darkness ebbed all about him, lapping at his body. Sandor heard his own ragged breath. Felt the head of flame graze his body and retreat, leaving a chill to plunge into flesh and bone. He ran his tongue over the dry and cracked flesh of his lips. There was no relief from the thirst, he craved the taste of water more than he had ever wanted strong wine or beer in his life. Fool he was to refuse water before. Now he could only open his mouth to catch some of the rain water, it was not nearly enough.

Somewhere in the periphery of his senses, he heard the crackle of twigs snapping, and the squelch of mud. His flesh screamed; he could feel each nerve overflow and sing. He heard its voice. Low murmuring. And somewhere a voice high, soft and sweet… His heart pounded in his chest, like a sword striking against a shield in war. Egging on the dance of life and death. The clamor ebbed through his body and visions began to dance before his unseeing eyes.

He breathed in.

Smoke began to pervade the air; he could taste the overwhelming presence of it on his tongue. It built up and up, filling what little space was free of fluid the infection and sickness wrought. And so Sandor lay with smoke swirling within him, no longer aware of the damp earth beneath him, the drizzling rain upon his skin, or the insects feasting on gangrenous flesh. He was beyond the scent of rot.

The crow had long settled back on its perch, the serpent's blood trickling from its beak and stringy flesh dangling. It rustled its feathers and tucked into itself, eyes fixed upon the scene below. Overhead other crows circled, patient but intent upon the scent of sweet decay and blood, yet would not dare to breach through the canopy of leaf and wood. Only the wind dared to disturb the tree branches, casting shadows upon shadows. Shadows that ought not be disturbed in their slow progression across the earth.

And a shadow fell upon Sandor, and the faintest outline of a face emerged from the fog of smoke swirling within Sandor. The face, at first formless, engendered and gained character. The gray smoke billowed forth then retracted gradually. Like nearing footsteps, heat surged within Sandor incrementally. Heat that built upon itself, yet would not smother itself as a fire would. The face acquired features as it came nearer, and finally much to Sandor's anguished horror, Gregor's cruel countenance hovered over him. And again Sandor was corned and helpless, as he once had been. Fearful….no, terrified in fact. Suddenly a sick bite of heat began devouring the side of his face. Skin, muscle and bone yielding.

The hound did not yell, the fog swirled about Gregor and tore him back but the pain lingered, and Sandor felt he might die. Finally as he was waiting for. Yet, as he lay in silence and devouring pain a small voice sang through the darkness, through the void. And he listened until only the voice remained and blue eyes.


	2. Filth

_Black is the void. Black is the absence of light. It takes all in, and does not let go. Black, the destroyer._

_Aye._

_The dirt piled on top of you after you die is black. Seldom does anyone reemerge from this very earth once buried beneath its depths. Or would tell the story…or could._

_The dead keep their secrets closely guarded. They will not tell you their histories, they have no voices to speak with, curse with. The earth fills their bodies day by day and eats their flesh. Just imagine the chaos that would result if the void did not obey the will of nature, the gods, and take all in; rather expelling these very bodies._

_Yet sometimes a wrong echoes with such ferocity in this world that nature has no recourse but to bend and yield. The ground shifts and breaks open, spilling forth the dead. Charred bones all bent and broken, decaying flesh surround a throat slit open. The eviscerated torso of a body quartered. You can now bear witness to a glimpse of their life and the miserable end. You can now find that these poor souls speak no lies. The filth that is the truth lies before you, evident as the air you breathe._

_One must then consider the terrible prospect of kismet renewed and second chances, offered to these former beings. Troubled creatures that they are. Bound together by vengeance, spirit, and black matter to walk again, to wield sword, to live but not truly be alive. What does this meant to us who are alive, who breathe, eat, war, love, fuck, shit, destroy and create? Would these creatures be aimless or would there be a burden to unload? What would feed their hunger? And with that gone, do they still remain?_

_Think…and think hard at that._

A voice warbled somewhere and everywhere at once, as though speaking through water. It was muted and distorted, but strangely calm. It was unfamiliar and unsettling, this stillness. A stillness as though suspended while everything continued its progression.

Sandor could only make out the unhinged movements of a blurred figure above him. Yes, exactly like being underwater, he thought to himself. Something like sunlight quivered further up above him. Rippling, looming closer, and retracting rhythmically.

He felt the cool relief of water on his skin and mused that he was drowned. He did not despair at the prospect. Sandor had no strength to struggle. Nor would he if the strength were in him. He closed his eyes, and tried to silence his thoughts.

_What feeds their hunger?_

_Black is the void. Yet, sometimes, it does not take all in._

Dead with my own fucking thoughts, no wine to dull the edges! The Hound raged inside at the realization, I'll lose my mind. He had to admit there was something to be said for living, sweet wine, sour wine, or any fucking wine… always reliable to quench his thirst or distract his thoughts. And the wet heat of a woman on his skin, the few times he'd given into his yearnings when the urges were too great to ignore even through the haze of drunkenness.

_Why do you let people call you a dog?_

A dull ache roused within Sandor, at first just minuscule barely registering at the periphery of his awareness, but exploded into agony that twisted inside him, like the bite of a Valerian blade, glutting itself on his flesh. The ache snaked into him, through him and he exhaled a shaky breath.

He tried flexing his fingers with great difficulty, and felt the damp grass at his skin. Could as well be reeds, for all he cared but he now knew with a certainty that he was not dead…yet. He fought back the memory of the question, the blue eyes. It was too much for a mind now drunk on pain.

"The passage can only be secured by the distilled milk of the adder's venom." A whisper through the darkness spoke. A crow croaked back, as though in response. Sandor opened his eyes to see who kept him company, but could make out little of his surroundings. He could hear the familiar roar of the water nearby, but did not allow for his thoughts to become swept up.

"Drink" urged the voice and a bowl was held to Sandor's lips. He complied and drank, sputtering on the bitter taste that scalded his throat on the way down. As foul as it tasted, it quenched his thirst at once and made him feel light-headed quicker than any strongwine he had partook in drinking. Sandor rasped for more, and another bowl was offered and he drank. This one was different, sweet like honey and scented with pungent tasting herbs Sandor had never before tasted.

Sandor felt the stupor completely descent upon him before he finished drinking but managed to inquire, "Who are you, man?"

The voice ignored the question, "Now you must sleep, and then we shall see what the morrow will bring."

"Fuck the morrow" Sandor stammered back, his eyes heavy, and his head filling with a swirling fog. His head lolled to the side as sleep overcame him.

Overhead the black crow lept off a branch and dove, skimming the ground before soaring upwards through the canopy of trees and disappeared. A cloaked figure stood up from above Sandor and walked towards the fire burning, where flames lept high and crackled. The forest seemed to come alive, as dusk encroached, and the figure set to work. A small river of blood coursed its way through the grass, pooling in the pitted mud.

Some boundaries are too devastating to cross, even to those who rely solely upon instinct. The forest and all its creatures remained at bay that night. At dawn, the crow returned dropping a small packet on the ground before circling overhead, as though surveying the scene. It settled back on its branch and fixed its gaze upon the figures below.


	3. Wolf

Sandor stirred, someone had spoken to him, but he could not make out the words. The brume hovered close to the earth packed road and thick in the woods_. Anyone could be hiding there_, he thought, _But I am here as well. _Nevertheless, he took spurs to his horse and the animal broke into a gallop to rejoin the road and the others.

The journey seemed to stretch on without promise of an end, along with it the descent into the cold had gone from barely discernible to now ever more apparent. The skies had been the clearest blue and the air almost too warm upon departure. That had been nearly a fortnight ago, and now the air blew blustery, crisp and cruel. The heavens above had surrendered to mottled grey clouds days ago. Sandor's breath billowed around him in an icy smoke as he surveyed the skies ahead. Today the skies had reawoken with furor, the clouds surged with turbulence filling with bright cracks of lightening that etched themselves into the air. The earth reverberated with sonorous thunder, and shuddered with each violent strike of lightening.

Sandor turned his look towards the men up ahead and bellowed over the rumbling weather, "What is it then? Onwards to drown in the rain?" His mount halted and shook its powerful head, moving to rear back.

One of the men looked back at him and with thinly veiled annoyance snapped back, "Just keep your horse moving. Should be a sort of town and inn up ahead shortly, and then you can go drown in wine instead of rain…"

Sandor scowled at the man, but resigned himself to silence rather than feed hostilities. He thought of his cramped quarters and had to admit it was a damned sight better to travel on the road. It reinforced his sense of purpose, though unfortunately there was little in the way of danger or fighting, aside from the invariable drunken squabbles that rose up at night – the result of deep thirst fanning the flames of some perceived slight, that festered day long in the mind of some hot-headed imbecile.

He paused at the thought, recalling his own run-in, smirking at the memory. It had been nothing impressive to boast about, Sandor had to admit to himself. The night had been dark, as most nights are and the wine was lush and went down easily. The woods spun around him as he stumbled between haphazardly erected pavilions, tents, and ramshackle campsites when a commotion followed by a yell had caught him by surprise. He stumbled and staggered into some wooden buckets nearly planting himself into the ground.

"What do we have before us? Only boys playing at men?" The Hound barked, severely annoyed as he fought to keep his balance. He wiped his dry lips on the back of his left hand and watched as a pair of halfwits rolled pummeling at each other in the dirt and ash of a campfire, cursing at one another. Three young village girls stood together surveying the scene, crying to one another and pleading for the morons to stop, waving their hands ineffectually.

Sandor made a disgusted noise at the pitiful sight, irritated at the youthful disrespect as they ignored him, opting rather to scrap and tear into one another. _Fighting like pups_, he thought. Both wearing furs and velvet, looking soft and weak. _If these were guards I would whip them bloody_ _but they are gentle born so - _he looked down and smiled almost gleeful, his gaze falling upon a bucket at his feet – _I must suffer them…but only so much._ His hand closed around the handle and without pause heaved the pail and its contents at the young men. Laughter boomed from his great chest as he saw that it had been used as a latrine during the night, their cries of disgust trailed after his laughter. The whole lot of them dripped in human waste and sickness, the boys scrambled to their feet, stupid and drunk.

"That ought to cool you down some. Boys, hot tempers do not belong with _cider_ when all you want is a wet cunt" The Hound snorted mocking them. Boredom was already setting in and he reached for his wineskin to drink deeply amidst the cries and curses of the young whores. Footstep by footstep, the girls backed away and scampered off into the woods. Their shrieks echoed in the hollow air as the branches and twigs snagged on their skin. The boys looked back into the woods after the girls and switched back at Sandor, indignant, confused and angry.

"You…you…BASTARD! You cost us that! You cost us that bit of _cunt_ that just ran off!" fumed one of the boys, flicking shit off the side of his face. His dark eyes searched Sandor over, but his fair weather friend nudged him, murmuring something quietly so that Sandor would not hear.

"If you hurry, you can still wet your cock, lucky for you the water in the trough will take you. Filth and all. That whore's plenty wet enough for you!" Sandor laughed and turned away to leave.

A voice called after him, "At least this shit will wash off my face! What can you say for that mud of yours?"

Sandor paused for a moment, needled. _The boy has no idea how close he actually stands to me_… he thought darkly, itching for his sword. Instead he took a step forward and then another. He had to expect that… _don't react, dog!_ He scolded himself and walked back to his camp, sobered some by a feeling of shame.

The fire had nearly died at his meager camp. His great horse lingered in the dark with his pack. Sandor lay down on the grass, not bothering with a blanket. He stayed there for some time, drinking and muttering thoughts to himself for sometime before falling asleep. And that was that.

The days since had run into one another and the Royal Entry inched along the King's Road, stopping along each town for the pageantry of their respective relics. Sandor was eager to escape the foul weather as it descended upon them at last. The heavens howled, and rain fell in sheets as the court fell upon the little town and overwhelmed it.

Once again Sandor found himself in a Sept, and the scent of incense clung to him. The chanting and hymns of the Septons were nearly identical, syllable for syllable from town to town. He came to realize that he knew their prayers better than the Septon did, as he listened to the man stammering and omit passages. He had laughed at that later on in the evening as he drank lustfully and deeply from his flagon. Charters were brought out and read with great flourish and pomp, oaths were sworn and town bells pealed in celebration.

King Robert played the part of the king, present but bored. The novelty of the long days full of prayers and administration had quickly worn off after the first few stops. The nights and evening revelry brought out the vices in the King and he indulged. The wine flowed and left behind a trail of bar maidens, serving girls, probable babes, and definite bastards. Here was no exception. The King wheezed along with singers, who graciously accommodated lyrics of Robert's own invention with their pipes. Queen Cersei and the children returned to the wheelhouse, rather opting to eat supper away from the curious looks and sideway glances from their subjects as the King delved headlong into the night and up some girl's skirts. _The fool._

"I want to stay with _my_ father!" Joffrey replied challenging his mother. Cersei shot a cold, pinched look at Sandor that was expectant. The boy with the warm golden hair and the cold green eyes used to roar like a lion – wild and beastlike. Since being under his own charge the boy had changed some, casting off childhood like a snake skin. Now he commanded with charm, though it was manipulative and calculated to every last word.

Sandor placed his arm on the boy's shoulder and turned him to face his mother, "When you're older you may join your father, but now it's best to follow your mother. Tomorrow you and I will go hunt game as real men, instead of drinking and playing at it." The pout on Joffrey's face lessened somewhat at the promise and he allowed his mother to grasp his arm and guide him towards the monstrosity that was the wheelhouse. Cersei turned her golden head and stiffly nodded at him in thanks, and disappeared inside.

Now Sandor sat in the shadows, playing at being a man. Drinking, listening, and watching. King Robert retired for the evening with a girl on each arm, and one trailing behind shyly avoiding looks. The rest of the men slowly began to stumble back to their lonely campsites. He kept his eyes on the tanned serving girl, slowly collecting bowls and empty flagons to wash. Her glow caught his attention, his body tensed as he saw the spray of freckles on her face. She caught his gaze and returned a shy smile, tipping her head of dark hair before scurrying off into the kitchen. Her breasts bouncing with each step.

He was rooted to the bench, and strangely light-headed. He felt his mouth twitch as he licked his lips in thought. He made eye contact with the innkeeper, a middle aged man with cloudy brown eyes that watered. Sandor motioned him over with a nod of his head. He turned the coin in his right hand over in his mind, waiting for the innkeep to shuffle over. He thought of the tan freckles on the girl's face and wondered how freckled the other parts of her were. Another shadow fell upon Sandor's nest of shadows. He pressed a silver coin in the innkeep's soft fleshy hand.

"The tan freckled nymph you have." He rasped. The Hound was hungry.

The innkeep paused and whistled sharply. _Upholding the johns' noble reputation. _After a moment the he waved Sandor on and showed him to a room near the end of the hall. Sandor ducked through low doorway. This abode was no thing of beauty, but it was clean. The bed was a surprisingly solid thing, as he tested it with a knee. _Clean linens as well. No luxury spared_, he thought, smirking to himself. The bed held up under his weight as he sat down and removed his boots.

He was relieved to hear silence from the other rooms, there was a small fireplace in his room that crackled pleasantly. He drank deeply from his cup and stared into the fire. The added warmth crept into his stomach, and he thought of her stealing into the room coming to him with her freckles, lifting her skirts in welcome to his roving hands –

A tap at the door broke his lustful thoughts, and the Hound's attention focused on the girl as she slipped in.

"Good evening, mi'lord." She said to him, but he did not bother to correct her. Sandor nodded in acknowledgement but remained seated on the bed. He watched her tentative fingers toy with the lacings of her dress, as she shyly smiled at him and took a step forward. The nymph deftly shed her dress, stepping out of it carefully and gingerly bent over to pick it up, hiding little in the flimsy material of her remaining tunic. The Hound could see the shape of her body as a silhouette.

"How old are you?" he questioned his voice gritty with desire, taking hold of her arm and drawing her closer to him. She smelled of soap, clean. She grinned wickedly at him.

"Old enough that I should know better, mi'lord." She sucked in her breath as she raised her arms for Sandor to remove tunic, and exhaled loudly . _Mouthy thing…_He wanted to shred the tunic to pieces and take her then. He was painfully hard at the sight of her sun kissed bare skin. Her teats proud, ample and ripe with peaked bronze tips for nipples. The rest of her gamine and long, her curves gentle and womanly called to him. The light from the fire rippled across her body, revealing her sex and he groaned in pleasure at the sight. Her skin was painfully soft underneath his hand. He moved it lower and was pleased to hear her gasp.

He caught her look at his bad side, through the shifting light of the fire in the hearth. She flinched in pain for a moment and swallowed.

"Turn around." He commanded her, suddenly desperate for her to look away. She complied without a reply the silence long and loud as her looked at backside. His face twisted with anger and confusion.

"What happened?! What is this?!" he rasped in disbelief, rudely. The light danced across her back revealing a sickening patchwork of welts and dark bruises. Her ass was mottled with angry bright welts. He spun her around to face him, his face twisted in confusion and rage.

Her chest was heaving, as she fought to breathe through a dry sob. Sandor felt sickness in his stomach, slowly realizing that the night would not end in his favor.

She would not look at him as she spoke, big fat tears rolled down from her eyelashes onto her cheeks. "They beat mi'lord. They beat me when I refused to sleep the Lannister Imp! Oh my gods… Willis threatened to throw me into the stables for the passersby to use! Said he'd give me a taste of it, to know what to expect… He dragged me outside screaming while the Sept's bells were ringing, wrenched a switch from a tree, and beat me bloody. The Imp's men, did nothing just stood by looking bored as Willis brought the switch down over and again!

The girls eyes were wild, Sandor's stomach twisted as she retched at the memory. He sat silently, not wanting to hear anymore but she continued on before he could shush her.

"He's halfblind but twice as angry and cruel for it. He laughed at me flicking a coin in the air, and told me that I must come to you. I…I didn't see your face downstairs, you sat in the shadows like a thief." She gasped for air, "He laughed to himself and sent me up to you. Please, ser, please have mercy on me… I tried but I can't… your poor face!"

Sandor sat in silence, seeing black. The air was too thick with smoke and he could hear the wind howl outside. The Hound, clawed at his insides in a fury that Sandor struggled to withstand. The girl cowered at his feet, her face awash with mucous and fear. Sandor fumbled with the pack on the floor, and took out a gold coin and shoved it into her hands.

"Tomorrow do what you must do. Stay or go, does not matter to me, girl" Sandor rasped at her. He laid back on the bed, frustrated, embarrassed and repulsed by himself. He closed his eyes, hoping she would leave.

The morning brought with it a ferocious headache and he groaned as he realized that the girl slept on the floor at his feet, snoring lightly. He swung his feet over her body, stood up and gathered his belongings quietly. His joints creaked as he moved past her and left the room. He moved through a fog through the inn towards the door. When he opened it, sunlight poured in over him and the chill in the air had lessened somewhat.

The entire convoy tore down camp and packed up to continue the final trek to Winterfell. Sandor walked to the stable and retrieved his destrier, walking him to the road over to the wheelhouse. Joffrey waited outdoors, watching Tommen run around with a wooden sword, wildly swinging it about. The Prince joined Sandor, bringing with him his bow and horse. They rode past the Imp's pavilion and Sandor could hear arrogant laughter from within. Sandor's mouth tasted sour and he spat, trying to avoid the memories of the night prior.

In the wood Sandor quizzed Joffrey in his tracking. Showing him the trunk of a tree where the bark had been rubbed bare from antlers. Joffrey took in his lessons eagerly, touching where bark had once been. They followed pitted earth, scuffed and marked with hoof prints. They heard a noise and Joffrey sat up alert, bloodlust plainly in his eyes. Before Sandor could react, the boy brought out his bow and quiver and shot. The arrow sang as it flew through air before impaling itself into the body of the stag. Sandor stood crouched, and watched the boy smile brightly, pleased with himself. The creature crumpled to the ground with a dull thud after a moment.

When Joffrey presented the stag to his father, King Robert narrowed his eyes at the boy for a moment and looked at Sandor. Queen Cersei's eyes glowed with pride and she rained praises upon the boy. The King cleared his throat and called for his men to remove the stag to be butchered, and then patted Joffrey on the shoulder .

"Isn't it like the lion to take down the stag?" he roared and laughed. "My own wife did it, but instead of killing me she took my hand and marriage. Who's the lucky one, might I ask?" No one dared respond.

Late in the afternoon, they crossed a barren landscape, a sort of tundra, where the grass and shrubs grew only close to the ground. The wind whipped all around, screeching like some old crone. It was strange to see so far ahead, to look in every direction and see only empty plains. _Are those mountains or clouds? _He wondered looking far into the horizon, searching for life. He was certain he saw a wolf running towards the Barrowlands off in the distance. Its grey and brown fur shielding it from view and he did not say anything. Behind him, the wheelhouse groaned along the road.

Winterfell slowly appeared, as if rising from the stony, grey earth. Massive walls surrounded it, lined with banners fluttering almost lazily despite the forceful wind. The emblazoned direwolves looked to pounce and leap in the air upon their flags. As they crept closer to the city, Sandor allowed the wheelhouse to pull ahead of him. Stranger snorted in protest beneath Sandor. _Gods be damned, even a beast can see how stupid we look!_

Sandor could vaguely recall Eddard Stark, it had been years and Sandor had been younger then with different duties at King's Landing. He wondered if Eddard had gone soft and disappointing, a braggart like King Robert as they passed through the gate. Overhead he heard men yelling greetings to the Royal Entry and loud cheers.

King Robert disembarked before the wheelhouse had ceased to move. He rushed forward wheezing at the effort, his cheek ruddy from the cold. The Starks stood waiting by the Sept and Robert approached greeted them with great show. He pulled Eddard into a hug, thumping him on the back and roared with laughter. Beside Ned, quietly stood his wife as well as several boys and a girl, all with amused looks on their faces that they tried unsuccessfully to hide.

Joffrey emerged from the wheelhouse with his mother, guiding Tommen and Myrcella over the uneven ground. Sandor followed behind Jaimie with his golden armor and the Imp Tyrion. He scowled at the back of Tyrion's head, reminded again of last night's unpleasantries. Up close Sandor saw that there were in fact two Stark girls, one he had mistaken for a boy…and it was not hard too. She looked like a tomboy, her muddy brown hair hung lank and her face plain and unimpressive.

The other Stark girl took after her mother in looks. Red hair in a neat plait, piercing blue eyes and a face that looked to be fast losing the plumpness of childhood. She looked uncomfortable in her maiden's gown, clutching her shawl tightly to her chest despite herself. Joffrey smiled widely at her and kissed her pale delicate hand, but Sandor could see through the easy manners with which Joffrey conducted himself. His eyes remained cold, though he smiled and mouthed the right words making the girl blush.

A rock settled in Sandor's stomach. He glanced at this Stark girl again out of the corner of his eye. Sansa. He remembered the stag from the morning and felt a sort of pity for the girl. She ought to run far in the other direction like that wolf towards the Barrowlands.

_Winter is coming, wolf girl._ He thought and did not laugh. Sansa looked up as though hearing his thoughts, and Sandor quickly ducked away to avoid her gaze.

"Drink.." a voice urged, and Sandor drank. Falling into a deeper sleep free of dreams, free of memories. Winterfell faded slowly from his mind until only the wolf remained running along the barren plains.

Author's Note: This project is more ambitious than I intended it to be. Currently sitting with a binder full of pages relating to different chapters. Outlines and rough drafts. I'm double fisting two iPads while rereading and researching. I'm anticipating the next chapter will come easier, but all the while it's been a pleasure.


	4. Irony

The trill noises of Sandor's surroundings echoed in the hollow air, coaxing him from a sleep that had been bottomless, almost drowning in its depths. He could hear the resounding chirrups and chatterings of nearby watercocks and moorhens mingling with the ungainly throaty croak of marsh frogs. It was peaceful as he emerged from the haze of sleep. A slight breeze grazed the unburnt side of his face. The rush of water began to trickle into his awareness, its ambitious roar growing heavier in the air. Nature spoke to him and did not ask him to answer back. Sandor listened and remained silent.

Behind his eyelids he followed the the wolf in the winter plains._ Snow drifted lightly and yet the creature moved with urgency, bounding through the sea of snow stretching on endlessly before it. The creature kept its eyes focused and fixed on the horizon, steadfast in it's journey. Ahead of the wolf hung a heavy grey strata of cloud and ancient cold, but it did not waver. It continued into the fog of shimmering snow and ice, disappearing like some ghostly apparition._

The dream that held Sandor slipped away and he began to stir. He slowly opened his eyes, groaning at the intrusive sunlight that made his eyes water and ache in protest. He brought up his right hand to shield his eyes from the harshness of the bright sun, his joints popped and creaked from lack of use. Gradually the pain in his forehead lessened as his eyes adjusted to the light, and through his fingers he spied a blue sky partially obscured by green leaves that had begun to turn golden. He felt sedate and dull-witted, his body tingled with parethesia as if his body were broken and coming apart.

_Where the fuck is the girl?_ He wondered his thoughts muddled, as he struggled to sit upright. The pain of his exertions stole the breath from him. The fevered memory of the wolf child's desertion flooded back to him as he surveyed his surroundings. The russet palfrey was no where in sight and Arya's belongings were gone. He made a rough noise, almost a laugh but it dripped in as much loathing as he could muster. A stone settled in his stomach and he grimaced for a moment._ No mercy for the wicked._

The air was hot, smelling of salt, iron and rot as if the entire forest was filled with death, and him left in the midst of it. It made Sandor's stomach cramp with nausea, he would have vomited had there been anything in him. A fire crackled next to him, spitting sparks and ash high up to singe the canopy of leaves above. The coals burned hot and bright, pouring heat into the already stifling air. He was too close to the fire, but for once he did not care to give it a further thought. Fire had always come by to savage his remnants of his life when he resisted it. The rains had stopped at some point, but it was beyond him to know how many days he'd been fixed to this one spot. Now the sun loomed strong and golden overhead, and Sandor had to accept that he was _alive_, despite his disappointment. He had been ready.

A cold wash of relief spilled over him as Stranger trotted out from the woods. There was little capacity within him to withstand further misfortune, and he was grateful that through some folly, this horse...his horse had remained with him. His outlook was restored slightly as he followed Stranger with his eyes. Sandor's courser lingered along the threshold of the woods, his head bobbing as he foraged along the forest floor. The equine's breath was strong and steady as it pawed at the earth searching, flicking its ears as a fly droned by.

Stranger snorted and tread a few steps towards a knotted willow, the branches parted and slid over the courser's dark powerful shoulders. Sandor swept his eyes across he campsite in suspicion. He could see his packs and several bags on the ground, flung open and looking thoroughly searched through. Overhead strips of cloth fluttered in a shiver of a breeze, they were tied onto low branches far from the fire. He felt clumsily for the back of his neck and moved his hand up to his ear, feeling for the wounds and finding them dressed in clean bandaged. Sandor craned his neck and searched for more signs of another's company. Two buckets, one with feed and the other with water were placed within reach of the horse. Closer yet, a polished driftwood mug stood glinting in the sunlight and next to it a bowl rested on a tree stump. The bark of which was caked in mud, dried from the heat. The grass was gashed and pitted along where the stump had been dragged towards the fire. He looked down at himself and the rough spun blankets that fell at his waist, neither of which were from his own bedroll. His boiled leather and mail were gone, the tunic he wore was unpolluted with the blood, dirt, and sweat that should have caked him.

_Someone else is here_, he groaned at the thought... _Maybe the little bitch did come back. _ He had found her more trouble than he anticipated. _Too much trouble_, he had to admit to himself. _What if she brought back that Lightening Knight and the tattered fuck Thoros?_ His eyes searched wildly for his scabbard but there was no steel to be found. _She would do that, I've fed her enough of the truth to leaved her baying for revenge._ He remembered his begging, his goading of Arya for mercy with the secrets he spilt at her feet. He could feel the revulsion in her eyes singe him as she denied him the death he begged her for.

_Wine, I need wine. _ His thoughts were unsteady with suspicion as he cradled his head in his hands. His body had began to ache with a throbbing pain. His left leg hurt badly and he was almost afraid to look too long at it. Just the thought of it added to the misery. He sat for some time with his eyes closed as he held his head, trying to gather up his thoughts at they tried to slip away from him. Sandor vaguely recalled a voice urging him to drink. He remembered drinking the offering, but what else?

_What else?_

Sandor took his hands off his burned head and sat, watching his horse tread deeper into woods that dipped down towards a riverbank. The horse went as far as the length of rope it was tied to allowed. Leaves had already begun to litter the ground and fluttered down around the horse as it lowered its head and sniffed around a spray of white flowered plants. Sandor took a deep breath, his burned lips twitched in a spasm. _Snake's milk. Ironic._

He watched with dead eyes as his horse strained against the rope to reach the white flowers, muscles rippling on the animal's neck. Sandor brought his palms together, clapping to engage his horses's attention. The horse continued to ignore his master's calls, rather opting to pursue with more vigor after the florets.

"Stranger!" he commanded, his voice hardly more than steel on a grindstone. His throat burned, it was dry and all he could do was rasp. _Stupid horse_, he thought but inside he was filled with a consuming panic. He did not have much, but he would much rather die than to watch his warhorse fall dead. Sandor tried to stand, but the terrible agony that lingered on the fringe closed in, angry and bright red. He saw the world dissolve before him, the pain in his leg took away his breath as it buckled beneath his weight. His ears rang in a deafening roar. He fell back onto his elbows and finally did find his voice. Yelling in fury, disgust, and agony. His head spun.

He retched and this time he did vomit, bile filling his mouth as he spat out the foulness.

Sandor's yells were followed by a heavy void of sound that echoed in the air. The woods stood strangely silent until at last a bird song pierced though the quiet. Sweat dripped down his forehead and his wounds stung, his mangled ear hurt. But for the song he paused to listen. It hurt to think of her. He would allow himself to think that much of her. _Only that. So I must __**not **__think of her._

The woods were all of black, green, and gold. His chest fell and rose with each breath he took, wheezing slightly. His lips curled into a twisted smile.

He laughed. Through the pain, through tears and blood, _through the damned exhaustion, through the fucking disappointment_. His laugh broke the air, ungainly sounding and crude. Sandor laughed until his sides ached, not from the sorrowful beating he took, but from the effort of laughter. And he did take a beating, he deserved it... that and more.

He was not himself, he would never be himself. There would be nothing, no revenge. No retribution. He had always expected that there would be _the_ moment. But Gregor was dead, and somewhere in the past was the moment that he should have taken, where ever it was. Gregor had left his cruel mark and escaped the proper fate, the only fate! _ He sound have fucking died with my sword at his neck or buried deep in the black thing of his heart!_

The forest echoed with emptiness. No answer to this thoughts, to the insanity that he found himself in. It sucked him in, he had been born into a madhouse. It was dark, miserable and strange. The fear of too much light, too much sound, too much living... the fear of what should have been natural.

The sound of his horse screaming from the woods snapped Sandor out of his morose musings. He could hear the warhorse struggle against some presence. Stranger's breathing was loud and angry, he trumpeted, kicking his hooves loudly threatening. Sandor sat up, ignoring the discomfort of his sudden movements. A dark figure struggled with his horse, it's dark robes dragging on the ground tattered. It dragged his horse into the shadows, shrieking.

Sandor's heart was pounding in his chest. _Maybe the tales that old nans whisper in the night are true._

He hesitated for a moment before yelling out, "Leave that fucking horse _alone_! Leave _him_!"

Silence danced in the air.

"Leave him to die, while his master watches on throwing a fit, worthy of a madman?" a voice shot back through the dark woods, loud and strong as it reached Sandor's ear.

"Who the hell are you?"

"You've already asked that question."

"You didn't answer it, as I can bloody well recall." Sandor was frustrated. He wanted only answers and not to be toyed with.

The voice sounded intrigued, "What _else_ do you remember?"

"What am I supposed to remember? I've been on the brink of fever, on the very precipice of death, drugged and kept asleep for how long?!"

"You sound almost proud of your suffering."

"Yes, I take pleasure in self flagellation." spat Sandor sarcastically his gray eyes following the obscured movements in the forest. There was rustling, murmuring, every once in a while Sandor could hear Stranger renew his struggle. After a long pause, the shadows began to retreat from the forest.

"Fear not, your horse will live. As will you." the voice cried out loudly before breaking out into coughs. A shrouded figure emerged from the woods, Stranger trailed behind on the length of rope with foam dripping from his mouth. Sandor realized, looking at the figure that it was a man of the Seven who he was speaking to. The robe he wore was dun rough spun. The man lowered his hood and wiped at his brow. His head was shaved in tonsure.

"You're a brother of the faith." Sandor said out loud, meant more to himself.

"It is very astute of you to notice." The man turned his back for a moment, and tied Stranger to a branch much closer to the campsite. He turned back to face Sandor giving him a tight nod. The brother's face was broad, and his eyes were sharp. He was a brute, a fighter. Or at least had been one.

"I am who you say I am, and you were near death when I came across you. You begged to be put down. You were a touch away from dying. The wound in your leg had gone putrid, and the neck and ear were well on their way."

"Then why not mercy?" Sandor looked up. His face like stone, whole one side and broken on the other.

The brother considered his words carefully, " You are a fighter, there is no mistaking the look of you. You kill. You live by the sword you carry with you." He paused for a moment, looking unflinching at Sandor. "I have taken a vow, and no matter the duress, life will not find its end through my hands."

"But I live now, and I may still yet kill you." Sandor threatened, suddenly inflamed. _The fool and his talk of vows! As if that would have any bearing on his instincts if I were to come at him with a sword in hand. The man's a born fighter... Instinct bloody reigns!_

"Yes, but that is a choice that is yours to make. We all have choices, Hound or Sandor Clegane... whichever you truly go by. I had a choice when I stumbled upon you. When I saw the helm that lay next to you, and saw for myself the burns that mottle your face. I had a choice, I know I did. Fever raged in your body and your breath rattled in your throat."

The brother looked Sandor in the eyes. "I could have walked away."


	5. Mercy

"When you think of tomorrow, what do you see?" asked the holy man, handing Sandor a gleaming driftwood cup.

He took the cup but scowled at the question. The driftwood was nearly bone white, feeling at once smooth and knotted in his hands as he turned the cup around to inspect the fine carvings etched in the wood. He turned the question over in his mind.

'Tomorrow's a promise. The people say that. Trouble with that is promises are the same as any other oath, they're all made to be broken. That's all I know of tomorrow." Sandor's ragged voice was tinted with hostility. _ I've no need to play the confessor,_ he thought to himself.

The monk picked a thin branch at his bare feet and prodded at the kindling in the snapping fire, silent and staring deep into the flames as he sent flecks of red hot ash up into the sky. Sandor brought the cup to his mouth and drank. It was filled with a honeyed tisane that tasted like nothing he ever had before. Despite himself he tilted his head back and drank deeply, draining even the dregs in his cup.

"It's good," the brother agreed as he sat down on the tree stump and sipped from his own mug. The right sleeve of his robe slid down towards his elbow, leaving his forearm exposed. A scar ran jagged from elbow to wrist, its skin was taunt and twisted. Sandor looked away before the other man could notice and instead raised his eyes to the sky. Dusk was fast approaching. The whir of insects began to fill the cooling air. A moss green cricket lept onto Sandor's leg and rested there for a moment before springing off to rejoin its kin in the grass.

Stranger idled as close as he could to Sandor, anxious and keeping careful distance from the brother who reached into a dun haversack and pulled out two loaves of bread. The faint scent of yeast filled Sandor's nose and his mouth watered almost painfully. He tore into his loaf, feeling the suddenly pangs of hunger as his appetite returned. The bread was fresh, all but melting on his tongue.

'Eat slowly. I don't need you to faint," cautioned the brother biting into his own loaf and leaned back. He watched the flickering flames, immersed in thought as he ate. Above a squall burst through the air and the man grumbled for a moment. He begrudgingly tore a wedge off his loaf and lobbed it at the woods. It was still for a moment and then a carrion swept down from the treetops, stirring a flutter of leaves around it as the bird picked at the bread with its dark beak. Stranger was skittish as the bird waddled towards him.

"You keep spies in the woods?" asked Sandor, eying the bird with distaste. He tore off another piece of bread, pushed it past his ruined lips and chewed. He remembered the eunuch Varys and his 'little mice'.

"You see spies, I see friends." corrected the brother turning to face Sandor. The wind shifted and blew smoke from the fire between the two men. "People are quick to forget the sanctuary of the woods. The quiet, peace, and pace of nature.

Sandor scoffed, "Are you some sort of hermit monk, holed up in the woods then?"

"And do you always read things literally? replied the monk briskly and he set down his bread. The man paused but continued after a moment. "No, I am not a hermit." Sandor could see that the man was guarded, as if protective of home... _where ever that is_.

"You were a fighter, a warrior if not a knight," Sandor stated bluntly as an observant guess. He knew where to needle the monk. He waited for a response and saw a muscle twitch in the other man's heavy set jaw.

"Aye, I fought like you, drank and whored like you. You can not deny that you have done these things. But unlike you I died and was reborn a forgotten man," came the pious reply.

"You _died_ and were _reborn_? Spare me the doctrinal bullshit!" sneered Sandor and he leaned closer towards the monk. "Tell me, why did you leave your other life? Really now." He gave a groan and grimaced as pain sang through his leg. "You could have gone back, you had to have had the choice." His voice was but a low whisper at this.

The monk gave Sandor a look of pity. "You ask for more of a story when there isn't much else too tell."

Sandor laughed at the holy man's words as soon as they left his lips. "You don't like me brother, that's smart of you. But it would've been smarter had you gone off and continued on your way when you stumbled upon this sad scene. I'm a dog living out his days underfoot from now on. I'm as good as dead anywhere I go like this_... that's what tomorrow holds!_" Sandor hissed, gesturing at his broken body beneath the rough blankets. That was the plain simple truth of the matter.

"Your soul is troubled -"

"Piss on that and piss on you!" spat back Sandor, his face twisting in severe annoyance. "You healed, shared your drink and your bread. Even the simplest things can carry a heavy price, so what do I owe you? Search my war packs; take what you want and leave!"

The brother stood up brushing crumbs from his robe and shook his head. "You are badly hurt. It would be stupid of you to dismiss me, however I would be the foolish one if I do not heed your words after such abuse and insult." He walked off towards a tangle of weeds to the right of Sandor. "You make fear a game, it's the only way you can tolerate yourself when you you can't drink yourself stupid." The monk knelt in the tall grass with his back to Sandor, the shadows of the woods obscured much of the man.

_What is he doing? Praying? For what... guidance to know the way?_ Sandor thought mocking, and yet the monks words had struck a nerve in him. His sneer waivered and suddenly he was the one left needled. Sandor watched the man in the grass and it dawned on him that he was searching for something amidst the brush and fallen leaves. Finally the monk reappeared from the shadows, carrying in his hands a scabbard. The crow darted behind him, squawking into the evening air and startled Stranger who had only just begun to settle down.

The brother laid the scabbard gently across Sandor's lap. It was a heavy weight to bear. All of it was. He frowned as he looked over the studded leather scabbard and drew out the battered sword; the fuller gleamed in the muted light. It was his darkest companion, having shared countless bloodshed. "Men claim that I've lost my stomach for fighting." He chortled to himself at the absurdity for a moment. "If only that were true." Sandor's eyes remained glued to the steel in his hands. "I'm only just tired of cleaning shit off other people's hands, even a dog gets tired of being kicked."

He threw the sword down away from him and it fell to the ground in a muffled clatter.

"And where does a dog go, after he's been kicked one too many times?" asked the monk carefully with his gaze still locked on the sword, its crossbar wedged into the grass.

Sandor stifled a laugh though there was no humor in his eyes, "Why, away from the madness, friend." He breathed in the smoky air, and resisted the urge to speak anymore than he had yet he could not contain himself. It all bubbled forth like sour gall and left his mouth burning. "I left because it was going all rotten, the decay had only just begun to grasp King's Landing. I thought to myself, should I stay and die for the little shit of a boy king, another terror? I've no doubt you've heard of my brother." Sandor looked up expectantly and watched the monk nod. "I've seen madness before. The trickle soon enough becomes a maelstrom." The monk sank down to the ground and listened intently, the fire was too warm on his skin but he dared not stir.

"This is not confession, but a matter of conscience," Sandor continued, his white teeth flashing. The look of a mania shone feverish in his eyes and he became frantic as he recalled the strange emerald wildfire, cowering suddenly from their meek campfire as he relived the dark night; the monk surmised that the Hound had now awoken. "Blackwater had me leading my men out, again and again while the night burned away in an endless green wildfire. Each time we left the gate it was with less soldiers. I would look back at the Red Keep and think to myself, _will this dog die for the boy king_?" The Hound paused, treading deep in dark memories. "Will I wade out into the water, blinded by flames, only to have some peasant-turned-soldier clad in straw armor bury an axe into my back? _No!_ I thought but went out anyways. The wildfire moved in with the tide, and steam actually rose above the water from the heat of the green inferno."

The brother did not utter a word while the man spoke. He understood and allowed himself to think back on his own previous life. A sword in one hand and a shield in the other. The scrimmages, the battles, the wine, the rape, the blood. It was still there though he prayed each day that it would disappear. You could live or exist. _Outside there is no living_. _It is all gone from me,_ the brother thought to himself not unsadly._ This man is me but worse and he knows it._

The Hound's rough voice broke the brother's thoughts._"_The fucking Lannister imp thought he could rule the madhouse and now look at him! 'Form up and fight, the imp commanded like some warrior. Look at his reward and see how just it was! The Hound sneered but then quieted some. "That pretty little wife of his flit off into the night I heard. She was Joffrey's scraps that one, and Joff cut his claws deep into her." The Hound stopped and his breath came ragged. _It's __**not**__ right to speak of her._

"The seed was corrupt." he said incensed by the memory of the cruel boy he had shielded for so many years. "I tried to like him, I tried to guide him as well as I could but I am no father. Joff had a cruel streak in him that I've seen in few men. Gregor being one. He taunted his little brother, walloped him with wooden swords, pushed him down half a flight of stairs. All these things were sweetly explained away and tucked neatly into a dark corner by holier-than-thou parents. The poor sister was sweet and kind, but suffered almost too cheerfully from her brother." The hound remembered even though he had only been a pup. Now he knew better.

"You had to know better. With him you had to think quick and you had to be sly." His unmarred lips went wry. "Gregor suffered from headaches and pains from early on. The sunlight hurt his head, blinded his eyes in the worst of his fits. Any loud noise would send him into a fury for quiet. To escape him you had to stay outdoors where he would seldom venture when a head pain struck him. Many times I raced out from his grasp and hid away in the woods secure that the monster would not kill me. For what fault, for a rattle of my bones as I slipped down the stairs? Or my yells of pain after I fell? Or perhaps my yelp of surprise when I felt a sharp shove right before I took the tumble? Pick one, _any_ will do."

The holy man, exhaled a shaky breath. He searched for words to console Sandor, but they dried up in his throat.

"I couldn't hide out in the woods forever though, and eventually I would have to come home. I would walk back home through the woods that were filled with birds like a aviary of sorts. The birds would be cheetering a death march for me. The keep is full of many dark corners with heavy drapes obscuring windows, and Gregor would linger in the dark because he _never_ forgot. And there were only more dark corners after most of the braziers and torches were removed after he was finished with my face."

The brother reached out to touch Sandor's shoulder who flinched away. "Gregor is dead. And so it ends like that."

"How do you know of this?" the monk was bewildered, and reached his hand into a pouch that hung from his rope belt. Earlier while Sandor slept, he had met with a proctor for provisions who also passed along a reply from a raven the previous evening. He clutched the strip of parchment he had read earlier as he trekked back to Sandor through the woods.

The Hound remained silent, his grey eyes red from tears, smoke, and ash.


	6. Grief

Sandor sat, lost in a heavy brooding silence. The memory of the sleepless nights at Winterfell had taken hold of his thoughts. How a loathsome wolf had bayed, howling off into the endless nights, after the young Stark boy's plunge from a crumbling ruin of a watchtower. The beast had gone mad with grief, growling and snapping at the unfamiliar southron faces, running about the grounds wild and panicked. On the nights that he had stood guard over Joff's quarters, mournful howls would shatter the silence, echoing along ancient stone walls as the wind rattled tirelessly at the windows. The smell of blood had been thick on the air, and the direwolf could smell it, the same as he could. _Dogs have senses just as keen_, Sandor had mused darkly and reasoned further, _what are wolves but wild, untamed pack dogs?_

Now he found himself far from Winterfell, King's Landing, and anything or anyone familiar, but even lost in the dense woods he could still make out the smell of blood on the wind. It was not his own but Gregor's, and it was a foul, poisoned stench. This was instinct. _My instinct, _he thought, but he would not mourn that rabid dog, he would rather piss on Gregor's corpse than carry on like a long faced Northerner.

_How do you know of this?_ The brother's question still lingered unanswered.

Even still, Sandor hesitated. His answer would sound ludicrous, unreliable... though it was still true in as far as he'd witnessed in his life. There was no such thing as coincidence, he had learned that harsh lesson long ago as a child and still remembered the unsettling heat of the dagger as it's hilt was pressed into his hand. What happened afterwards had gouged a wound deep inside him that had never quite healed and remained raw as ever. Now Sandor knew better than to question visceral knowledge. The part of him that was the Hound was savage and ruthless. A feral brute, ruled over by primitive response. _I am more of a beast than man, _Sandor thought to himself though it no longer gave him pride as it once had. He fought to keep his face composed and stoic, but the look of pity in the brother's eyes told him that he was failing miserably.

"Instinct," Sandor's voice rasped almost defiantly, at last responding to the holy man. "The same as any creature can sense death. Might be that men are not so different, at least not this pathetic dog." He gave a gruff chuckle and shifted uncomfortably on the hard, stoney ground. The brother listened, feeding kindling slowly into the fire. Sandor searched the man's heavy face for reaction, as light from the coals rippled across his face. He only wanted to know that the monk understood and believed him. To him that would be reassurance enough to know it did not sound like crazed ramblings of a mad man. It was not entirely impossible that his mind had come unraveled. In some holdfast, in the wanderings of his youth, Sandor had come to know of an old salt merchant. There was a story of a fever and that the man had awoken from it changed and affected. There were whispers that he had turned rabid, and had to be put down, so a knife had been eased into the poor bastard's heart. Prayers were said, and the matter was neatly forgotten yet Sandor couldn't shake the story of misfortune from his head.

_What comforting thoughts..._

Sandor's hands shook. He could feel sweat bead on his forehead, making his bandages stiff and stick to his skin uncomfortably. The brother prod at the kindling with a stick, his face was grim and resigned at Sandor's words. He reached into the folds of his robe and produced a piece of paper. The monk held out his hand and offered it to Sandor. "Take it and read."

The Hound stirred and Sandor looked warily at the bit of paper in the monk's outstretched hand. _I don't want this._

He reached out and took the paper anyway. "You expect me to look at this bloody thing?" He said, for a moment sounding near human. The brother sat still as stone, watching on as Sandor twisted the sheet between his rough fingers. _I'll burn his fate same as he did mine._ Sandor ripped at the note, and tore it to pieces. He held his hand out, allowing the wind to feed the paper into the eager fire. The fragments curled, blackened, and turned to cinder. The fire crackled, as if pleased with the offering. Sandor's mouth twitched again and again as he watched.

_It's not nearly enough._

Above the two men the evening sky began to light up with stars, each flickering to life one by one through a force of nature neither man could understand. Off in the distance, past the twilit woods, a loon warbled a solitary cry. The monk sank down to his knees and bowed his head in prayer. Sandor listened to him. He listened to holy man's words and then through them. The conviction and hope in the monk's strong voice struck at the despair and torment that the Hound thrived on. It was almost agonizing for Sandor as he quietly joined in.

"O gentle mother, glorious defender of all those who pray to thee, deign to look upon us that seek mercy when suffering shall be so near. Melt away the pain of fear as thou dost warm our hearts with thy grace and keep us in thine defense. Give us strength to be the embodiment of your humble mercy. Protect us from the depth of our own iniquity, gently lady. In thee we seek comfort. In thee we seek peace. Shield us, O mother, in this life and forever after."

_ Hopeful words, _he thought to himself, though ungainly on his rough tongue. The brother continued to kneel with his head bowed in silent meditation after the devotion concluded. Sandor hadn't heard a prayer to the mother since the quavering hymn sung in the shadows inside the Red Keep. He remembered how the darkness had ebbed away from _her_ pale face as streaks of unnatural emerald fire unfurled amidst the red ribbon of natural flame outside the windows. How feverish her blue eyes shone as she sang, trembling beneath his weight as the darkness began to encroach across her features once more. He smelled her fear, it clung to her skin, making her presence known to him even in the dark. Such a strange creature, he had marveled and mourned, the little bird.

The brother raised his head from contemplation and leaned on the wobbly stump for support as he climbed to his feet. The man stepped towards the glinting longsword on the ground between them and touched it with his foot. "A sword in easy reach will inevitably lead to bloodshed. I say this with the knowledge of a fighter, you know much the same as I do. It's the easiest means to an end." He gave Sandor a curious look. "Tell me, did you pity the person at the end of your sword?"

Sandor shook his head, he did not wait for his enemy to plead when the icy edge of his sword skimmed their flesh. He did not care to know them, he sought only to protect his own hide before another could try to send him off to the Stranger. _They're all meat and I'm the butcher._ He had said that to the girl, hadn't he? He also remembered dragging the point of his blade along her throat to rest at the warmth of her pulse. The memory was tainted with a murky cloud of emotion and wine, and he shoved it into the back of his mind. It made him grimace and he gave a harsh cruel laugh and shook his head, damning himself for letting himself get too involved, risking all, and losing everything.

The monk paced around the fire, his drab robes dragged behind him with ever step taken, sweeping dangerously close to the flames of their fire. "What is right and honorable is seldom the easiest choice. Even the pursuit of morality can have one deviate along muddled paths cleverly disguised as righteous. What does one do when your lord commands, and you must oblige?"

Sandor leaned forward, he knew what his own answer had been to the last question. He could allow himself to yield to the truth the monk spoke of. "You must hate when you kill, even if it's for only an instant. You detest the person at your sword or you hate yourself for being behind it. Sometimes it becomes both, and it is here that despair begins to take root." The holy man stopped in front of Sandor and crouched down, clasping his shoulder with a strong reassuring hand. "Now hear this monk's advice: Seek peace. It will find you and offer you purpose and meaning. Pray and let all that you do be in service of the Seven and the good of your fellow man."

The words made Sandor shiver, and the monk caught notice."Those bandages need to be changed." he observed, eyeing the bandages around Sandor's head and detracted from his sermon. Water was poured from a skein and set to boil in the ruined hound helm as the brother carefully unwound clean bandages that fluttered, hanging in the nearby low lying branches. The crow waddled behind the brother, crooning softly to itself and Stranger snorted his displeasure when the man and the dark bird crept too close. Sandor reached up to untie the swath from around his head.

"Stop, don't bother," bid the brother sharply, taking notice. "You'll just aggravate the wound when it's only just begun to knit itself together." The monk strode back with the bandages streaming from between his fingers. "I'll tend to it, myself."

"Are you some sort of healer, as well?" Sandor let his hands fall back onto the blanket in his lap.

"I help in what way I can be of use. I suppose you could call me a healer, but I am no maester." The brother's words made Sandor think of Pycelle and he couldn't help but smirk at the memory of the deceitful, proud ambition in the old man. The monk's robes billowed lightly in the wind as he hovered over the helm and dipped a wooden cup inside and carefully drew out a measure of the steaming hot water. Peculiar looking herbs and powders were added to the steaming mug, and several of the bandages were left to steep in the mixture. A strangely fragrant scent was released into the evening breeze, making Sandor slightly drowsy as the aroma gained potency.

His spoiled flesh began to itch as the old cloth was painstakingly unknotted and carefully removed. His leg hurt the worst when the monk came to the task, though he handled it gently. Sandor could feel the jarring sensation of bone grinding with each slight movement.

"Fucking hell, my leg - !" Sandor grunted through gritted teeth, his leg blazed anew with agony.

"The bone is broken, though happily for you the fracture is clean and the bone did not splinter as far as I can tell. It's your flesh took the worst of the mauling." interrupted the monk, concentration evident in his deep voice.

"Yes, _happily._" echoed Sandor bitterly, his crooked mouth twisting down. His leg jerked involuntarily as an cool liniment was applied onto the tender flesh. "Breathe in," the monk reminded him and Sandor obeyed. He worked slowly at his task, and urged Sandor to open his eyes. "You must know how to care for yourself, there are far too many butchers parading around as healers in the realm as of late."

At the warning Sandor opened his eyes and watched as the brother worked, mixing ash from the fire into a wooden bowl and pouring enough hot water to mix a paste. An assortment of herbs were ground into a thick paste using a stone that had been coaxed and prodded out of the flames with a stick. The process looked all at once so very primitive and yet complex, the brother sat bent over the wooden bowl with his brow furrowed as he worked, all the while talking at Sandor and explaining the properties of every single powder portioned into the paste. This healer monk called it a drawing salve, and Sandor knew it to be a poultice of sorts.

The mixture was spread into his leg wound and onto the surrounding inflamed tissue. The monk fished out a steeping bandage and folded it over, applying an unguent to the damp cloth. "Oil of thyme", he revealed and pressed the dressing over the poultice. Several strips of bandages were then knotted about Sandor's leg. The brother focused his attentions to Sandor's neck and the raw side of his head where an ear had been. When the last of the dressings had been applied, the brother stood up, lit a lantern and gathered up the soiled bandages. "Now if you'll allow me, I must go and clean myself up."

Sandor fumbled for his manners for a moment and remembered himself. "Thank you." The brother stopped in his tracks and turned and gave him a vaguely pleased look. The monk strode off through the clearing into the sloping thicket, his robe rustling the fallen leaves on the ground. Sandor eased himself back onto his makeshift pillow and stared up at the night sky through the canopy of leaves. The wind stirred and he could hear the snap and groan of resisting tree branches and the tumble of twigs along rotting wood and timeworn bark. He listened to Stranger's steady breathing, as he tried to cope with discomfort. The pain in his leg threaded through his entire body, somehow entwining with the hurt at his head and neck. Sandor remembered to breathe, just as the brother had instructed; each breath had to be long, steady and deep.

Shadows crept closer as the fire waned. Sandor's eyelids felt heavy as he drank in the stillness. A noise broke from the forest and the crow darted off into the tree tops, cawing loudly. Sandor groaned at the bird, and opened his eyes to watch the irksome creature flit off into the darkness. Now at least he could rest without worrying that the bird would waddle up to him as he slept and pluck out an eye or two. What a complete assortment of maladies he would have then, he scoffed inwardly to himself.

Out of the corner of his eye Sandor spied a dark figure dart through the gloom of the forest. He watched underbrush sway in the wind, half expecting a boar to run out at him. He lay quiet and still as a corpse, feigning sleep. Instead to his shock, a child crept out on all fours, like an insect. It moved with a stealth that told Sandor the child was accustomed to hiding, and not just the playful type either. Sandor could see that the cautious, terrified movement in each step was a calculated risk the child made.

The child had dark eyes, almost like bruises set a gaunt face, and little else could be seen aside from the dirt that marred the small face. It crept towards the remainder of the brother's half eaten bread, lying on the grass next to the stump and snatched up the bread with trembling, eager hands. It gnawed at the loaf, frantically cramming as much into it's mouth like a squirrel, preparing for a long winter. The child caught sight of the steel on the ground and reached for the hilt, dragging it awkwardly across the grass. Sandor watched on as the child struggled to lift the sword with one hand, and then reconsidered instead trying with both hands. Sandor watched with growing worry as it struggled to keep grasp of the longsword, swinging it almost wildly. At last he had to speak up.

"What do you want with the sword?" asked Sandor breaking his silence. The child spun around on a heel, struggling not to lose his balance or the sword. Sandor leaned up stiffly onto one arm, resolved to hide his discomfort. The child stood mute, mouth agape with bread still in it. The child was a boy, Sandor realized, and the boy's eyes were now fixed on Sandor's face in surprise.

"Have you ever held a sword before?" Sandor tried again, ignoring the boys stare.

The boy slowly shook his head no. It was plain to see that the child was a malnourished and sickly thing, even through the layers of damp, filthy clothes. Sandor looked closer and realized that the boy was wearing every meager article of clothing he had.

"How old?" he asked, determined to find out more.

"-T-t-ten," stammered back the boy.

The fire was only coals now, rippling with heat and casting a dim light. Sandor could sense that there was more fear than bravery in the boy's eyes, but knew that it didn't make him any less of a danger. An empty belly could reduce men anything. The Riot of King's Landing was just one such messy lesson that Joffrey had mishandled and wiped his hands clean of.

"Are you alone, or have you anyone else lying in wait?"

Again the boy shook his head no, mumbling something and chewed on the bread in his mouth.

"What? Speak up!"

"He's dead."

Sandor narrowed his eyes, was the talking about the monk? "Who?!" he demanded to know almost harshly, then reminded himself that the boy had the longsword and that even though the child had not enough strength to swing with accuracy, two hands were more than enough to stab and twist a blade.

There was a muffled sob, and the boy's shoulders shook as he looked down. "My brother." Sandor's eyes narrowed even further and he sat up completely, ignoring his reviving pain.

"Boy, tell me your name." whispered Sandor, but the boy flinched away. Sandor saw a swaying light some distance in the woods behind the child. He gazed it for a second and returned his attentions to the youth. The boy had looked up, his dark eyes gleamed in the pale light. Sandor looked in disbelief at the scarred face that peered back at him, and felt a wave of terror overwhelm him, and wrench his insides.

It was himself, Sandor remembered the face he was given more than the face he had been born with.. It was the familiar monstrosity he had dared to peek at in a looking-glass, when the burns were freshly minted. The wounds wept, he wept, the exposed nerves sang at the salt taste of his tears. The sight of his mottle flesh and bone, made him vomit and he had doubled over. The looking-glass had tumbled from his hand and shattered on the stone floor, and his face reflected back at him from hundred different angles.

Sandor blinked and the boy was gone, and the sword lay once more at his feet. The swaying light in the woods approached still closer. _Perhaps it's more spirits, come to seek revenge. _Instead it was the brother, who returned carrying dripping wet bandages and a lantern in the other hand. Sandor begged him to come over and sit with him, and the brother acquiesced.

It was then that Sandor was ready to confess and he begged the brother to listen. He had much to say.

* * *

An: Thinking about possibly adding different perspectives. It's a possibility, but there's a part of me that enjoys mucking about in the mess that Sandor encompasses.


	7. Crux

All men must die.

That was the bloody truth of it. Sandor told the brother this and more.

He spoke of the only home he had known, a place where he had learned the art of an uneasy, guarded sleep. A house resonating with a hungry silence, and vast emptiness that loomed larger than anything contained within the walls of the manse. Indeed, the only part of the household that had ever felt truly alive was the towerhouse itself, and perhaps Gregor _was_ the manifestation of its cruelty. Sandor watched as the corners of the brother's mouth tucked into a frown at the revelation of such superstition.

The Stranger had been anything _but_ a stranger. Death was a familiar, curling a merciless hand to claim so many with the misfortune of being sheltered within the stone walls of the Keep. Common folk whispered their hearth tales, telling of blood curses, shifting shadows and lingering darkness falling from the mountains and grasping for the Keep evermore, relics from a time long past and nearly forgotten. Some claimed the long winter, though others countered, claiming older to the time of the First Men. His family's own misfortunes fanned the flames of idle talk and chatterings.

The Keep stood almost affront to the nature that surrounded, made ominous by it's faded majesty. It overlooked a leaden colored tarn split by a narrow causeway of schist and timber smelling sweetly of rot. A rubblestone bawn circled from behind the tower house touch the muddied and tangled shoreline, rife with driftwood and cattails. After a long spell of rain lakeflies would choke the air with a reverberating and deafening drone. These were his father's lands and his father's before him, given as a bone to a loyal dog.

The towerhouse swelled up from the earth like the trunk of some great tree, though with bark of stone, sitting on a basebatter of limestone. Fissures webbed the walls as though carved by some masterful and macabre hand, quoined by slabs of pebbling granite. The trellised windows of crimson glass had a peculiar way of reminding one of a wierwood tree with red sap seeping through an etched face. It was an opulence that somehow stood the test of time, yet never quite pleased him to look up and find the queerest sensation of discomfort in the suspicion that it seemed to gaze right back at him.

Thinking on it made the hairs on Sandor's neck prickle, the manse seemed to thrive through the tragedies somehow, though he could not explain. His lips twisted dwelling on thoughts he had long cast aside. Slivers of fragmented memory shone back broken in the looking glass of his mind's eye. Terrible enough to draw tears and sharp enough to draw blood. He was shaken to remember the startling scarlet of his father's blood against the dank murk of mud. Sandor had been certain it was black.

_What other color could it have ever been?_

Sandor let his head hang, and played with a blade of grass between his fingers. The proprieties of confession were lost upon him, but he knew the prayers. And so he prayed and swatted at a drab moth that had settled on his blanket, facing the fire that his companion had everlastingly tended to. A flurry of dark feathers against darker air swept down and made a feast of the insect.

_You wanted him dead too._ Sandor heard a challenging voice in the depth of his memories.

_Yes,_ he thought. But all men must die.

And die they had. All but himself, and perhaps living was the crueler fate.

Sandor spoke of the family he once had. _Family,_ he scoffed inwardly, another bitter word on his rough tongue. But yes, he had family and what a travesty it all had been. All puppets on strings for the Gods to play with. Once there had even been a mother, though meek under her husband's word and rule, now dead many years of child birth, taking the babe along with her. _The Stanger took them, he did._ Sandor thought of the dark horse he had spied wandering the grounds at dusk so long ago. The very night mother had passed the midwife joined her, tumbling down the uneven steps of the Keep's rear staircase, skin blistered from the fat of an overturned rushlight.

There was talk of looming shadows and Sandor knew who they whispered of. For years afterwards gossip spread of the drafty room where mother had been confined, claiming it echoed with whispers on the wind, scrabbling the oiled leather through wooden shutters, and the faint meowlings of a new born babe. Father had given him a cold, pinched look when he had asked, and curtly told him, "Nonsense."

Sandor unearthed more beneath the oppressive strata. He remained silent for a moment, shifting through the ragged memories of her. The small child his sister had been. Would always be.

Together they played, wandering into the woods where he would climb high above, clinging from branches. He trusted that they would not fail him, confident that he would find footing in a groove or notch in the bark. He would keep watch over her, as she sang lullabies, hiccuping with laughter at jokes and stories he would lob down from the tree tops. When she was lucky he would make off with sunflower seeds in a kerchief and she sat on the ground, snapping sunflower seeds between her teeth, complaining loudly when a shell bit back, snagging on her tongue. What remained of the cache would later be flung for the birds and little forest creatures.

Once he brought down a bird's nest from a gnarled tree he had climbed and together they inspected three freckled little eggs before laying them back gingerly on to the twigs. Sandor had climbed back up but somehow fumbled, and one little egg tumbled back down to the unforgiving forest floor. She had been inconsolable and wept at the sight of the broken pieces of shell and wood. Together they tread through the brush towards home, reeling from their guilt and shared sin. They both glimpsed finality and fled, thinking with heavy hearts on the mother bird. They were ashamed, and later in the nursery she had whispered in a child's lisp, "Are we going to be _punished_?" Sandor felt his voice break, and found that suddenly it was hard to breath.

That was a question for the _fucking_ Gods. For his father and mother, now riddled with ghastly conqueror worms.

The worst pain was how he remembered his sister in the most general of terms, dark hair...but had it been black or brown? Her eyes...had they been just grey? All that swam before his mind's eye was a small bloated face mottled orange and black. Clouded eyes stared through him, past him into the sky that had shone brightest blue as a dense fog settled over his heart. Dead and gone, found floating face down in stagnant water. A torn ankle, savaged to the bone, meat replaced by maggots, flies, and water beetles. Father could look away, but Sandor could not. He looked straight into the dark void of Gregor's eyes, never any good at keeping secrets even with his mouth shut.

_Nonsense, father had said._

The burns had already been carved deep. His foolishness, his fault,_ they_ said. Never Gregor's, father did not even have to speak for Sandor to know. He would not even look at him.

_My punishment. My fault. _

Sandor stared hard into the fire, unable to break the connection, fascination, and fear. It all washed over him, raw as ever. Once he had been a boy stumbling through the bush when he happened witnessed Gregor set a hound on father. He stood terrified as Gregor strode towards him and _stepped _over their father and pressed a dagger into Sandor hands. A hateful hand forced him down by the scruff of his neck, until his forehead grazed broken flesh. His eyes followed the path of red into the black earth as it drank deeply.

"Mercy," his father had pled, a gut wrenching garble of blood in his torn throat.

Sandor leaned in close, and looked into his father's suddenly frantic grey eyes and whispered, "Look, can you _now_ see which one is the monster?"

"Nonsen_-"_

Sandor did not wait for father to finish. The hilt of the dagger burned hot in his hands. And they shook, as he sheathed the blade in his father's heart, feeling the metal grind against bone. He swore to himself and dissolved into a hysteria as his ears rang and rang, and his sight was clouded bright red.

A guardsman strode forth from the sedge, slack jawed as Gregor brutally thrust his sword into the man's belly. Through it all he laughed, his face twisting cruel, hateful and strange as he gesturing at the carnage. "What _have_ you done, brother?"

Sandor sputtered, his words came out unintelligible. _Run!_, his instinct urged, screaming at him. So Sandor willed his legs to move and he ran, covered in his fathers blood and gore. He stumbled over the brambles and crags in the earth, and swore he could hear his father's... _no_, now _Gregor's_ hounds, barking after him. Chasing him. _Hunting_ him.

It had been out of desperation that he sought help from the same Gods who had abandoned him when he needed a saviour the most. These very same Gods holy men trumpeted and professed to have a plan and a greater purpose for each mortal. Sandor had fled to the Sept, where incense swirled hypnotically and heavy in the air. He begged the thin balding man in immaculate robes to tell him what purpose the Gods had for him. He begged for the sanctuary he had read of in the books his maester once provided. There had been no answer from the Septon, only a look of revulsion and fear as Sandor lowered his stained and bloodied hood, showing the man his face. That had been enough of a reply and Sandor fled like a scorned animal.

But now he sat with a man so unlike the Septon who had scorned him. A brute of a man who looked him in the face and did not flinch away, even if the truth was ugly. And stranger yet, this same man looked him in the eye and extended an offer of sanctuary.

Sandor gazed up as the sound of dull thunder rolled off in the distance. The sky rippled with light far off in the horizon over the tree tops. He bowed his head, though wound at his neck throbbed in protest and nodded.

He laid awake long after the brother turned in for the night. The rain came and went, and left him with clearer thoughts. He realized that nature had too taken in her fill of secrets though there were still so many, foreign to even him.

And he wanted to lay the beast to rest and regain his humanity, if it was even possible for a man with hands so stained to find redemption.


	8. Sepulchre

Sepulchre

A series of hacking coughs rudely woke Sandor from shallow, dreamless sleep. Slowly, he leaned up awkward on a stiff elbow, bleary eyed, greeted by the sight of his companion seated and hunched over a length of wood. Tight coils of dull grey bark littered the grass by his feet where another branch rested, scraped and stripped to a blinding bone white. The fire next to him looked long extinguished by the rain, ash now one with the dirt. The brother glanced up to the sound of crackling leaves beneath Sandor who shifted his weight from a tired arm as he struggled to sit up.

"You'll be in need of a splint." The man's voice hoarse, gritty, and worn sounding as he resumed his work. Sandor muttered his thanks, and sat absorbed, watching how the man handled his knife, pivoting the back of the blade against his thumb, cutting into the wood smooth as butter. _Easy as flesh_, Sandor allowed himself to think darkly. The man handled the steel not unskillfully and the smoky metal winked at him, glinting from a stray pinprick of light. He tore his eyes away from the knife and saw the brother eyeing him, a vague look of concern enveloping his face.

_ What dose he see? So early and I've already given him reason to frown, maybe I am more of a burden and just now he sees it, _Sandor wondered, but could not summon familiar indignation and ire, so quick to rush in after a wash of shame. Rather, he was left fumbling, searching for distraction, feeling so damn helpless and _humbled, _and it tasted strange. He awoke knowing that he had only this man to trust, and trust had always come with a high price.

"You made those?" Sandor nodded towards the etched mugs overturned on their sides resting amidst the autumn grass, rolling gently back and forth in the wind. The dark shade began to retreat from the monk's face, in fact he broke into a cautious smile, to Sandor's surprise. So unexpected on a harsh face where a smile seemed both unwelcome and unexpected to sprout. "No, but it would be a fine skill to have, had I the patience for it. Those are the handiwork of a fellow brother gifted with such fine tal -"

"So there's more than just you." Sandor rasped, cutting him off as dread rooted in his gut._ I would stay here than face anymore of...everything, every single miserable face. I don't want any of it._

The brother's smile vanished as he set his mouth into a fine line and turned the branch over to clean away a strip of bark. As he drew the blade down, a knot in the wood bit into metal where it twisted and slipped from his hand, but not before a scarlet ribbon unfurled from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger; the blade fell to the ground with a dull thud. The brother drew in a sharp breath and threw a chafed look at Sandor.

"You can never completely run away from the world, Clegane. No man is an island, haven't you learned the lesson yet?" The monk brought the gash to his mouth and sucked on the wound. After a moment he followed up, almost contrite, "That's the best advice I can offer you, if you are having doubts on my offer."

Sandor thought on his words and the standing offer. He had made no promises. It was all this other man, this intruder. _Your saviour_, a voice seemed to whispered in his ear, reminding him that he ought to be grateful though he disliked it all the same. It was so foreign. How long had he looked after himself? _At least he looks me in the eye. It must mean something . . . perhaps he has nothing to hide, nothing to gain. What of the others though?_ It was always when he was around other people that things went awry_. _He cleared his throat loud enough for the Stranger to twitch his ears before turning his eyes to the woods, watching the light change and shadows dance across the forest floor.

_That's not right. The fault was mine, time and again._

He had the man's attention but could not speak up, his tongue refused to co operate and he sat full of rioting thoughts, burgeoning hesitation and internal dialogue he so despised. The brother waited a moment and returned focus to his bleeding hand and then finished scraping the branch clean, holding the knife stiffly in his bandaged hand.

Afterwards they broke fast on hard cheese and bread, though Sandor had little appetite and pecked at his food like silly highborn ladies at court would; any other time he would've gladly eaten his share, he'd not forgotten what hunger felt like. What hunger could drive a man to do. They turned up their slight noses at pottage, and he remembered a time when he would hunt squirrels. Him, the son of a landed knight. _What was that bloody knighthood worth in the end? Nothing!_ He remembered the first night after days of hunger, the richness of the raw, red meat and how he had laid awake all night, stomach churning and aching, and how he had wept, tears that no one saw or could ever know. He had to learn to make that damned fire himself, but it took so long, so many blackened finger tips and raw cracked skin. . . He looked down at the cheese and bread, but could not will himself to take another bite.

Again the brother approached him with clean dressing and he allowed the man to change the bandages. His wounds itched and stung as the bandages were tugged away from the scabbing and seeping gashes that marred his skin. The splint was woven tight against his thigh with scraps of tattered cloth, but he gave little sign of discomfort, keeping his eyes fast on an army of ants that carried away his breadcrumbs towards some unseen mound. _Now their spoils._

Their small camp come down quick and their belongings packed up and just shy of mid day they set off . Sandor rode side saddle with his good leg hooked over the horn and the brother pulled ahead leading their way through clouds of flies and mosquitoes. Dragonflies hovered, snapping as they made a meal of the pests before they could make a feast of the strange company. Bullfrogs cracked thought he buzzing of insects, constant since the rainfall and in the background a low, ebbing rattle could be heard, never near but never quite far in the distance.

At time finical and fussy, Stranger tread along crooked cut paths, veering further and further away from the King's Road, allowing for the brother to keep distance ahead of them. Sandor kept quiet, riding mostly in silence occasionally answering the brother as he would ask news of the outside world. When he heard most of what Sandor had to say, he would shake his head in remorse, declaring that the world had surrendered itself to turmoil with no reprieve in sight. Sandor was inclined to agree.

As they made their way up a ridgeline, the man stopped, pointing towards a curtain of dark smoke rising in the east, heavy and threatening, above a thatch of gold tinged treetops. Sandor wondered if it was the work of Gregor's men, now a leaderless pack. Not that it mattered, just as likely Southron and Northern as any, even small folk caught in between took opportunity to rehash old feuds and rivalries. Either one would gladly string him up, that was a dead certainty. Sandor knew there was no room for the likes of himself. Bloodlust surged, baying for satisfaction and he would be just another offering to the Gods. _Better alive than dead_, he thought genuinely surprising himself.

He glanced westwards and could not pull hid eyes away from a glimpse of blue and gold waivering in the light of the sun. A strange trickle of feeling thread through him. Hope. Whatever it felt like, this had to be as close as he could allow himself. The brother followed the direction of Sandor's eyes, "That's where home is."

_Home_, Sandor repeated in his head, keeping his eyes fixed to the horizon as the brother pulled ahead once more, robes whipping about in a gust of wind. After a moment he urged Stranger onwards and caught up. Pebbles and stone clattered over the edge as they descended down a rock face, crumbling steps carved aeons ago weathered by the wind and rain, until they were level again and the relief of the cool wind was but a sweet memory. Humid air closed in all around.

For a time the rush of water had grown louder until abruptly the air was still. Treading though wet meadows, Sandor could scarcely make out any sight of the trail from the tall grasses rippling in the muggy wind, that stole his breath. He had to put his faith in the brother who continued steadfast, undeterred and determined. They reached the edge of a estuary and crossed into through the thick arabesque of greenery. Vines coiled and moss grew upon every still surface available making Sandor feel that if he were to stop moving, the moss would soon take him over. They stumbled upon marshes and lagoons smelling of stagnant water. Beatles raced over the black surface, sending ripples over to crack the still waters. Burst cattails scattered their seeds as their strange company skirted by. He could hear the mud suck at the Brother's sandals, clopping until at last the man sat down onto the split cypress bough where they were unlaced and taken in hand.

A few paces to the right of the fallen giant of a tree Sandor spotted a rusted helm, half sunken into the mud. Sandor urged the horse towards it for a better look.

"Stop. Think about where you are going, and just exactly where we are." reprimanded the brother in a commanding tone that seemed more fitting. Awareness dawned on Sandor, and feeling the fool he realized that sinking sands lay all about them. He guided Stranger back and knew without having to ask what else lay trapped beneath the helm.

"How much further have we got?" Sandor asked anxious to leave the place, as he pulled up alongside the monk. Stranger flicked an ear and set a fat mosquito at his face. He let go of the reins and crushed the insect between his hands, leaving behind a smear of red across his palms, but it was of little use as a black swarm edged closer.

"It's not an easy path is it? But it's the safest route. It will be a while yet, though." the Brother brought out a skein and offered it to him. Sandor accepted and took a pull, tasting the tisane as before, now sweeter cold than when it had been piping hot. He swallowed his mouthful and grimaced at the buzzing cloud hovering before them, his eyes drawn towards the helm again. Stranger gave a snort and rolled his head as the brother approached to retrieve the skein. Sandor saved the man trouble and tossed it to him underhand. He caught it, eyeing the horse and muttering under his breath as he tied the leather straps of his sandals to the rope cinched about his waist.

The air had grown further muggy and oppressive; Sandor began to the feel the lack of sleep and weariness of pain and nagging discomfort at every jostle and each step. Sweat rolled off him in streams and the salt crept under his bandages, stinging his wounds and half healed burns. Riding through the rough terrain had his leg throbbing; the crude splint pinched into the inflamed meat of his leg despite the swathe of cloth wrapped about his thigh, doing little to cushion the wound from further irritation.

Mud-skippers scuttled across the soggy peat, agitating Stranger. _Slimy little things, _he thought, worse than snakes though he saw those too, skimming across scummy waters. But still, he could not stop his eyes from drifting shut, and though he knew where he was, he saw things that he had no right seeing in such a merciless place. Ahead of him he saw that miserable boy, M..Micah and then blinked. He was gone and in his place the brother walked on...

Sandor shifting in the saddle and gave his head a shake. The green swam dark and light, dappled and shifting shadows ebbed before his eyes. _And somehow he found himself before Baelor's Sept witness to Ilyn Payne swinging his sword, but it was not Eddard Stark who felt the unforgiving bite of steel. It was all meant for him, and the kiss cut deep. And the screams did not only echo but rang, rang, RANG._

An intense tearing and burn savaged the back of his neck and thrust him from the haze of sleep. He woke with a jolt, digging his heels into Stranger's side sharp. To sharply and the dark creature burst into a full gallop, straight at who. He struggled to focus his eyes. The monk slowly turned back to see the commotion and Sandor fumbled with the reins, willing his hands to work. The worn rope slid from between his fingers as Stranger tossed his head and shrieked an unnatural sound. The brother stood before him, fixed to his spot before throwing himself out of the way, as Stranger's hooves beat into the ground where he stood mere seconds ago. _There'sno fear in his eyes_ Sandor realized dull-witted and pulled hard on the rope, forcing his hands to work. This time the horse screamed, stopping unbalanced and fighting for footing as mud and peat gave way into a deep rut riddled with twisting tree roots and Sandor threw himself forward, grabbing hold to Stranger's neck, forgetting his leg, everything as he clung to the creature. Panic feared him, overwhelmed him. The brother struggled back onto his feet with mud dripping off him, and rushed back sending sprays of muck flying about him and the above the crow swooped down low.

"Something's wrong. Look at his leg," Sandor yelled hoarsely, fighting through the fog as his heart hammered in his chest, "What do you see?" But when the brother tried approaching again, Stranger had none of it, showing no good humour and sent the man scrambling back.

"Careful with him," Sandor warned, trying to catch his breath but their was no air in the gods forsaken place. His companion tried to catch the reins but the horse bared his teeth and stood flailing his tail, challenging the brother to come closer. The man sighed wearily and raised a defeated hand, briefly flashing his scar. Stranger stepped backwards a few steps, grunting heavily, moving with a heavy limp. Sandor rested an assuring hand to the beast's sweaty neck, sensing the creature's misery, agitation, and pain. He could feel the horse's muscles strain and protruding welts from insect bites beneath his hands as he stroked the creature neck, trying to soothe him.

His companion got down on all fours and searched Stranger over from a careful distance, "The hoof wall is cracked," He offered up after examining the other leg, "It's going to be a long walk, or we start to consider other things."

"Like what?" replied Sandor, irritated at how his pessimism was constantly fulfilled. Suddenly he was scowling and braced himself as he swung his good leg over the horn and carefully lowered himself down, as the brother rushed to help and handed over his quarter staff.

"We start leaving things behind." The monk gestured at the haversacks, rolls, and oiled bags containing Sandor's armour. Sandor surveyed the damage himself, bending as far he could. Stranger's hoof had split down to the toe. It could have been worse, he told himself but snapped back, "Leave everything, burn it. Bury it. Just get it out of my sight. I'm done with it all." He sat on a large stone and rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Sandor couldn't block out the blinding light that seemed to come from everywhere and made his head hurt. He saw the younger sister's face and felt the scalding memory of her hopelessness and perfect anger. He had failed her too; made things worse when he dared to think he could make a difference, that he had a second chance to right his wrongs. He had failed, drowning in its familiar taste. _Everywhere I go, I fail. How long' til __he__ learns that lesson?_

Sandor opened his eyes, the brother had produced a beat up mottack, and pried stones from the damp earth. He squinted at another pile of stone jutting forth through low sedge, spilling over onto the trail. _Gregor had even refused father a proper burial. A stone cairn. No blessing from Septon_. He heard a great deal of the foulness within the Keep, sometimes directly from the mouth of some fool drunks, but when he rose from his bench they would scatter like cockroaches, piss running down their legs.

A clatter broke Sandor's brooding as the brother dug a shallow pit and started to throw the bags and packs in one by one. Sandor's battered sword was chucked in. _It wasn't any good anyhow, _now aware of how much more vulnerable he had become. The brother picked up an oiled bag but the leather strap came undone; chain mail spilt to the ground and his dinted helm rolled out, landing on top with a _clink_.

Sandor searched over the blood stained metal with tired eyes,"Listen here, I'll tell you another secret. Once there was a boy who dreamt of knighthood. I believed those silly fairy tales and then I learned life was no song." Sandor paused and leaned forward towards the mail, coaxing loose a burnish strand from between several crushed links. As he settled back, he wound the strand about a finger with care, feeling the slight elastic tension and eased off before the strand could snap, "I could never forget them though." Without further word he nudged the mail with his foot and it poured into the hole like flowing water.

The brother packed down stones over top. It should have been more significant, but Sandor found it easy to ignore the ache inside, as the stones clattered in place. The worst of it was his mind, and in the deep of his chest. He remembered the helm and picked it up, staring into the void he once viewed the world out of. The metal was in poor shape, jagged and shorn, dented and stubborn. Once he had marvelled at the helm's craftsmanship, so hideous it was art. And only he could appreciate what cold, dead things steel could mold into and what it could create. Fire smelts steel, strong arms give it shape, just as he had been made. _Exactly_ as he had been made. Sandor left the helm clatter to the rocks.

It was time to go. Whatever Sandor once had been, he had to leave behind and move forward. And they left, onwards as the soggy earth beneath them turned sandier. The hem of the brother's robes were caked with mud and sand but he seemed not to notice. Sandor kept his eyes down, and listened to the Stranger's laboured breathing, counting each breath.

"How did you find me?" he asked suddenly. The companion crow gave a cackle from overhead and the brother up towards the trees, vanishing as shade and shadows ebbed across until Sandor could only see the man's eyes glinting in the drowning dark. Sandor looked up at the branches and searched for the black winged creature. A darkening curiosity rolled over him.

Stranger took a laboured step forward towards a sandbar that rose into sight. A gust of wind caressed his face, and chased away the feverish heat. The sound...the sound of water lapping at the shore. It sweet as any sound he had heard, save for the birdsong that lingered in his ear. The crow took off into the bay, sending gulls scattering as they waited and stared off into the distance, water everywhere and so clean, he marvelled. Why does it matter now? He wondered sleepily.

The only answer was the sound waves rushing in. Sandor dismounted and clambered down the rocks with the brother's help towards the shoreline, as the ferry drifted towards them. Another robed man waited aboard, drowning in his robes, a scarf circling round and round his face, until only eyes glittered from the depths.

* * *

AN: I'd like to thank anyone and everyone still reading. I am thrilled to see all the readership from around the world, it's a wonderful fandom to be a part of. I know I write slow, but if you could only see all the drafts on my computer. . . I'm just so damned particular.

Thank you for all the PMs, I do try to answer back quick as possible. Nothing is more satisfying than hearing from you . . . except seeing the readership stats from around the world!


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